


someone save the queen

by vantas



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Baking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gift Exchange, Implied Relationships, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your oven is about to catch fire.  This is normal, you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	someone save the queen

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift for [ayatohs](http://uta.bae.tw/) on tumblr! I hope you enjoy. :)

It's a normal Sunday like any other. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and the temperature outside is on the comfortable side of chilly.

Your oven, coincidentally, is also _this_ close to catching fire.

This is also normal, you suppose. Maybe.

You're not entirely sure, actually.

* * *

( _someone save the queen_ )

* * *

Backtracking just a teeny bit, your mission begins at midday. You are armed to the teeth with a number of cooking utensils, ranging from simple measuring cups to overly large, overly bulky electric whisks you didn't even know were in production these days. Your apron is securely tied behind your back, your bowls are clean and ready, and you are prepared to tackle the horrific challenge that awaits you.

Your co-captain (alternatively, _victim_ ), on the other hand, is not.

Messing with the straps of his eyepatch and staring apprehensively at the materials laid out on the counter before you, he continues to open and close his mouth repeatedly. Once, twice, thrice—and by the fourth time he does it, you feel the urge to puree his brain with the food processor.

"What, exactly," you hiss, "is wrong with you?"

Almost immediately, he blinks and straightens his posture. You would find this exasperating, except he's looking at you a little less like you're his co-worker and a little more like you're some wild animal. Good. You don't want to say you can smell fear, but you sure can smell _something_. "Ah... Well..." he hesitantly begins, alternating between meeting your gaze and looking at some point above your head. "I was just wondering — wouldn't it be better if we _bought_ a cake instead?"

You consider his suggestion for all of two seconds.

"No," you respond.

"But..." he says, "Touka-chan, how will we know if it's good?"

You squint at him. "Are you saying I can't follow a recipe?"

"Um... N-No?"

That's what you thought.

Doesn't stop you from accidentally (or, not-so-accidentally) hitting him on the arm with the measuring cup, though.

* * *

"—Wait," he interrupts you for what may very well be the seventh time in the last ten minutes. There is a mixture of flour, salt and baking powder coating his hands. For some reason, you thought the 18 years he spent a human would give him some sort of advantage in the kitchen—but _they don't_. Not really. Being super annoying and super noisy is not an advantage. "Aren't you using less than two cups of flour?"

That still causes you to pause, however, taking a moment to examine the measuring cup in your hand. It looks like two cups to you, but. Well. Actually—

"—No way," you say, choosing to ignore that epiphany in favor of shooting down his concerns. "See? It says two cups right here."

And as if to prove your point, you lift the measuring cup in your hand to eye level and tap the red line near the top. You may be many things, but blind is not one of them.

"W-Well, yeah... but..." he begins, and you can feel the idiotic comment coming from miles away.

"But?" you ask, impatiently. Every second you waste listening to his incessant fretting is a second you can never get back.

"Isn't it... sloping?" he finishes, lamely.

You examine your measuring cup again and find that it is, indeed, _sloping_.

Alas, recognizing this as a problem would mean agreeing with him.

"It's fine," you tell him, stubbornness seeping through your pores. Then, under your breath, "Probably."

Except it wasn't as under your breath as you thought. He raises both eyebrows at you. "What was that, Touka-chan?"

"Nothing," you lie, "Now stop screwing around."

* * *

 He doesn't stop screwing around.

"Maybe I should handle the whisk, Touka-chan," he tells you, gently and as if you were a small child incapable of handling a common kitchen appliance. Or, that's how you perceive it, at least. Your wildly misguided perception of things is aided by the fact he keeps staring at the whisk in your hand like it's a lethal weapon, in any case.

 So you do your best to glare a hole through his head. "No," you tell him, a sense of finality in your tone. There will be no complaints. You are manning the stupid whisk. "I can do this myself."

"But," he begins, ignoring that sense of finality. Typical. "Do you know how to... err... use it?"

"Of course I do," you lie through your teeth. "It's not hard." Then you flip the switch on the electic whisk, turning it up all the way to _high_ , and lower it towards the bowl.

Unsurprisingly, cake batter goes flying everywhere.

* * *

"Okay," you say, once you've washed four eggs out of your hair and one cup of cream off your face. Unfortunately, your attire will smell like vanilla and baking powder for weeks to come. "Now all we do is stick it in the oven, right?"

"Yeah," he replies, apron caked with raw batter and a face full of regret. "The recipe says at... a hundred and seventy five degrees."

Well, that's easy enough. You glance at the recipe again, slide the cake pan into the oven, and set it to the correct amount of degrees. Once that's done, you shut the door.

Now all you had to do is wait. The recipe calls for thirty minutes, so you guess you'll just have to kill time until it's ready.

It shouldn't be so hard.

* * *

It is.

Oh, _it is_.

* * *

"Is it done yet?" you say, after only ten minutes have passed.

He gives you a look, one that's odd and hard to decipher, and shakes his head. "Um... no. It shouldn't be."

"How do you know?" you ask him. You swear you're not being impatient.

"It's only been ten minutes," he tells you, as if that should explain everything. Then, he adds, "You can stick a knife in the center to check... if you like. If it comes out wet, it's not ready yet."

And you do just that.

(The knife comes out covered in raw cake batter.)

* * *

Thirty minutes later, you have the opposite problem.

"Touka-chan," he tells you, once you've settled into a chair in the kitchen to read the other recipes in the book. "It's been thirty minutes. The cake should be done now... I think."

You don't even spare him a glance. "Give it a few more minutes," you say, casually. "I don't want it to be raw."

* * *

A few more minutes turn into _ten_.

And then _fifteen_.

And then—yeah.

The cake comes out burned on the top and your hands come out with one hell of a first degree burn—but you also come out victorious.

Technically.

You both scrape off the top and slap some store bought frosting on it and call it a birthday cake.

* * *

"How does it look?" you ask him once everything is said and done and your kitchen has survived the ordeal.

He falters for a moment, mouth open but no words coming out, before he exhales. "It looks... okay?" he says, sounding completely unsure with that statement. "But I think... Yoriko-san will like it."

You stare at the sloppy, drippy and uneven monstrosity on your kitchen counter. You almost want to taste it, out of some misguided desire to know if it's really okay, but you know that's impossible. Still—you somehow feel a little relieved.

"...Is that so?" you say, hesitating for some unfathomable reason. You shouldn't need him to reassure you.

But, still, you look at him from the corners of your eyes when he nods and turns to smile at you. "Yeah," he says, "I think she — no. I'm sure she will."

And despite yourself, you find yourself saying, "If you say so, shitty eyepatch."

That's as close to a thanks as you'll get.

* * *

(Yoriko did like the cake.

She gives you two slices to take home, with a wink and a nudge you pretend not to understand.)


End file.
